


The Song of the Open Road

by waltwhitmans



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M, Walt Whitman would be so proud, bus bus bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltwhitmans/pseuds/waltwhitmans
Summary: Chasten was fully prepared to stump for Pete, he was happy to be along for the ride, but he had a few ideas of his own.A little less conversation, a little more action...on the bus rolling through South Carolina.
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	The Song of the Open Road

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Pocket, whose call for sex aboard the bus I have answered; to Hozier, the horniest man in Ireland, for the song "Moment's Silence (Common Tongue)"; and to the memory of Walt Whitman, author of the poem "Song of the Open Road," who was not shy about expressing his passions.

Pete had sacrificed precious space in his suitcase to bring the doorstop that was his much-loved copy of _Leaves of Grass_, and he insisted on keeping it in the situation room in the back of the bus. "When I have a little down time," he explained, like he was planning on having any down time at all. The back room had a couch, a table, a TV, outlets. It was the most glamorous place on the bus. They were sitting on the couch, waiting for the bus to move. "I can unwind with Walt Whitman."

"You're spending four days on a bus in South Carolina surrounded by reporters and you think you'll have time for poetry?" Chasten asked, incredulous.

"Or at the hotel."

"Maybe I have plans for you," Chasten said. 

Pete cleared his throat. He was turning slightly pink. "We'll see."

The bus was rolling through South Carolina, four days from Greenville to Charleston with more than a dozen stops in between. Embeds were piling on, wearing their sound equipment and ready to record everything Pete said or did for the next four days. Lis surveyed it all from a chair in the corner, like a queen looking over her estate. A cabinet was fully stocked with coffee pods, and there were cinnamon rolls and scones for the taking. For this last trip on the bus before voting began, Chasten was riding along. It was no secret that his presence got more people in the door; it was suspected that people gave larger donations after they'd seen him. Chasten was fully prepared to stump for Pete, he was happy to be along for the ride, but he had a few ideas of his own.

Pete opened the book, began to read. "_Afoot and lighthearted, I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me _-" 

There were two short raps on the door before it opened and Lis stuck her head in. "Oh captain, my captain," she said. "We're moving out. Get your asses up here." 

The first leg of the trip was from Greenville to Abbeville, an hour south. Pete sat in his usual central seat, surrounded on both sides by journalists, microphones in his face and a cup of coffee in his hand, and answered questions about his latest policy roll out, the continuing impeachment hearings, ending the forever war, and what he hoped to achieve in South Carolina. Chasten sat away from the scrum and watch his husband's political mastery. No question had been unconsidered; no answer was off the cuff. After a full paragraph on the possibility of peace talks with the Taliban á la the Good Friday Accords, Chasten caught Lis's eye. She looked up from her phone for a second and winked at him. 

There was a formula for each town hall or rally Pete would be doing. At the school gym, VFW hall, auditorium, or outdoor stage, a local organizer or political operative would speak first, on how and why Pete was the best candidate not only for the big thorny problems inherent to the presidency but also to help tackle local issues. Chasten would go on to tell the personal stories, be the heart to Pete's head, and introduce him. Pete would do his usual stump speech, bring Chasten back out to moderate the Q&A, and then they would walk off the stage for handshakes and selfies. They could probably do these in their sleep but each one was special and deserved their full attention.

Abbeville was welcoming and excited to see them. As they made their way through the crush of people, they kept hearing the same thing: thank you for coming here because most candidates don't. It bothered Pete that there were people being left out of the democratic process because they lived far from the cities, and Chasten was well aware. It started to drizzle as they walked off the stage, so the gaggle was cut short as the embeds ran back to the protection of the bus and the local reporters packed the vans up. Pete went straight into the back room; he usually needed a little time to decompress after being in front of a crowd. Chasten followed him, closed the door, sat on the couch next to Pete. He was executing his first plan. "You did great," he said, resting his hand on Pete's knee. "Everyone out there loved you."

"I'm still surprised. I forget that I've got all that in me, every time. I'm better than I think I will be."

"I loved the answer you gave to the little girl."

"School uniforms are an important subject."

"You think everything is an important subject," Chasten said, as he slowly moved his hand up and in to the inside of Pete's thigh. "You're so considerate. You would have shaken every hand there if Lis hadn't pulled you away for the gaggle." 

"It's important," Pete said, and he was catching on, bucking his hips just a fraction as Chasten pressed his hand into the joint where his hip met his thigh. "Retail politics is paramount. They're going to spread the word." 

"And when they cast their votes for you they'll remember how you made them feel." Chasten went for Pete's belt first, then the zipper. Pete swallowed. "The same way you make me feel." 

"What are you -"

"I know it can be hard for you to get up in front of a crowd." Chasten leaned in and dipped his head to kiss Pete's neck as he pushed his hand into Pete's jeans, found him half-hard. "So I thought you earned this."

"There are embeds and staff and Lis right outside."

"Then tell me to stop." Chasten slid off the couch and knelt between Pete's legs, looked up at him with an expression somewhere between innocent affection and devilish arousal. Pete could never resist. "Well?"

Pete nodded, fumbled for the TV remote, turned on CNN and raised the volume, covered his mouth with both hands. Chasten kissed his way up the inside of Pete's thigh, and by the time he put his mouth over Pete, he could tell that this wasn't going to last long. Call it round one. They had three more days on the bus. 

\-- 

Day two began in a hotel room in Laurens, where day one ended after rallies in Promised Land and Ninety Six. Pete was keeping a list of the most interesting place names and all three were strong contenders. He woke up a few minutes before the alarm, silenced the phone, then rolled over to look at Chasten, still asleep. He was on his back, one hand under his pillow and the other splayed on his chest. His shirt had ridden up and there was a strip of fair skin showing above his boxers. Pete wanted to put his mouth there, his hands. He thought about the day's itinerary. Embeds on the bus, checking Twitter every few minutes; three rallies in three new towns as they headed towards the coast; press gaggles, "High Hopes," and hopefully some barbecue at the end of the day. Pete watched Chasten breathe. Newberry, Lexington, and Orangeburg were waiting. The wake up call would be coming soon. It would have to be quick. 

Pete pushed the blankets back, pulled himself on top of Chasten to lie between his legs. Chasten opened one eye. "Can I help you?"

"No, I'm good."

"Babe."

"I woke up and you look amazing and we have a few minutes." Pete started kissing him behind his ear and worked his way down, covered Chasten's jawline and neck and collarbone. "Busy day today. We have to be on for most of it. Let's take a little time for ourselves." 

Pete started to push himself down, figuring that getting Chasten going with his mouth was a safe bet, but he was stopped. "Stay up here," Chasten said, grasping at Pete's sides. "I want to hold you."

Like he would say no to that. In the four years and four months they'd been together Pete never failed to be shocked at how much he was missing. He wanted to go back in time to the guy who decided to try porn after admitting to himself that he was gay and say, "Someday you'll be married to the best man you'll ever know and his body will be your home." 

Pete didn't really like watching porn, because it was all so obviously fake. Men with six-packs and bulging veins played athletes and college students and straight men who never felt like this before, before deep throating ten-inch long dicks like old pros. He couldn't give into the fantasy of it when it all started to look the same. After the fifth or sixth "fuck, you're so tight," he gave up on watching porn, and decided to make his own fantasy. He lay in bed at night and tried to imagine someone with him, but the strange thing was that he couldn't picture a face. He knew what he was attracted to, on the surface - gentle eyes, a nice smile - but every time he tried, the man in his head was faceless. He soldiered on regardless. Half the time the fantasy turned away from sex and ended with Pete falling asleep imagining himself being held by the man, having arms around him. That said volumes about what he really wanted: someone who would hold him. Sex was almost irrelevant before he met Chasten and began having it. What little Pete thought he'd learned from porn was quickly disproven. Sex was messier, weirder, funnier, much more awkward and uncomfortable while he was still learning, but after a very generous learning curve and Chasten maintaining the patience of a saint, sex was a hell of a lot better than porn. Porn ended after the guys came; Chasten always brought Pete a towel, cleaned him up, kissed him, encouraged him, held him as he fell asleep. "I know you're used to being good as everything right away," Chasten said, after Pete's first dismal attempt at oral. He'd coughed until his eyes watered and had to stop. "But nobody starts out being good at sex. Believe me. Everyone is terrible until they aren't." 

"I'm trying."

"I know. And I appreciate your enthusiasm. But forcing yourself isn't going to work." Chasten patted Pete on the arm. He was completely sympathetic for Pete's position. "You'll get there."

Pete was an apt pupil with an encouraging teacher, and it didn't take long. 

Presently, Chasten pushed his hands up Pete's shirt to rest on his back. His palms were warm. "What are we doing?"

"Touch me," Pete said. Heat was pooling in the bottom of his stomach and he felt a certain pressure in the small of his back. "And I'll touch you."

"Is that it?"

"I think that's all we have time for right now." 

"Is this a tit for tat thing because I blew you on the bus yesterday?"

"Can't I find you sexy and feel attracted to you of my own volition?"

"At this hour?"

"Hey." Pete let his hand roam down Chasten's side, into his boxers. "Self-deprecating talk is not helping either of us." 

"Okay, okay. Just let me rearrange myself before you get too far."

While Chasten adjusted his position, Pete kept his hand where it was, found what he was looking for, brushed the pad of his thumb over the slit and watched Chasten writhe under him, until Chasten shoved a hand into Pete's pajama bottoms and did the same. "I love when you don't wear underwear to bed," he said. 

"Prior preparation," Pete hissed. This was taking too long. The thought of a staffer knocking on the door was agitating him, taking him out of the mood. He got up on his knees and jerked his pants down off his hips, did the same for Chasten before lying down again. "There." 

"Slow or fast?"

"Fast."

"Fast what?" Chasten asked, rocking his hips against Pete. 

"Fast, please."

"See what you get when you're polite," Chasten said, before drawing Pete into a tight embrace and kissing him. 

Ten minutes later they were showered, dressed, and checking their phones when the knock on the door came. "Bus in five minutes," Saralena said. Chasten shot Pete a look over his glasses. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

\-- 

The barbecue came from a literal shack on the side of the road between Orangeburg and the overnight stop in Holly Hill. It was so good Chasten had to suppress a moan after the first bite. He balanced his styrofoam plate on his lap and watched Pete hold court with the embeds. Between bites and sips of Diet Coke, he explained the answers he gave to questions from the last rally, commented on troop movements in the Middle East. Chasten knew he was the only one who could see that Pete had a pounding headache. At the rally, the microphone shorted out, so he had to raise his voice to be heard, and there had been some back and forth with a man who refused to believe that he wasn't a CIA plant sent to collect information for the Illuminati. It was plainly obvious to Chasten that the tension Pete built up in his shoulders was moving up and clustering at the back of his head, and if he didn't do something about it Pete would be up half the night with a band of pain around his forehead and temples. 

Pete kept up appearances until they were in the elevator at the hotel, going up to their room. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "There's Tylenol in my bag," Chasten said.

"Thanks."

In the room - finally, beautifully, blessedly alone - Pete swallowed two pills dry and lay down on top of the crisp white duvet. There wasn't even an atom of barbecue sauce on his shirt. Chasten lay down next to him. "Peter."

"Mm." 

"You know what you need?"

"An ice pack would be nice." 

"Roll over."

Pete obliged, lay face down. Chasten started at the back of his neck and slowly threaded his fingers into Pete's thick hair. Even muffled by the pillow, the sigh of pleasure was audible. "I never get tired watching you on stage," Chasten said, gently massaging Pete's scalp. "And I never get tired of watching you walk past strangers and seeing them fall in love with you. It reminds me of how I felt on our first date, when I was watching you talk to people at the restaurant and the ballpark, and realizing that you really were the guy I thought you were. That there wasn't a persona or a mask that you put on. And you've never had that. People love you because you're honest and you're consistent and you're compassionate. That's why I fell in love with you. That won't change when you're president."

As he spoke in a soft, level tone, Chasten slowly pushed his hand up and over Pete's head, not too hard, not pulling on his hair. Pete lay almost completely motionless, hands in loose fists at his side relaxing until they were flat. Chasten lifted his hand out of Pete's hair. "Peter? You still with me?"

Pete lifted his head. The blissed out expressions on his face was proof that he was feeling better. "Thank you," he said. "I needed that."

"Ready for bed?"

"Absolutely." 

Two days down, two to go. Next up were St. George, Walterboro, and Yemassee. Chasten still had plans for Pete, but he could wait. 

\-- 

Chasten had been teasing a plan for Pete all day, between rallies and question time with the embeds, and Pete went to indulging Chasten by agreeing to submit to whatever he was planning to being genuinely curious. Being with Chasten, Pete had found something rare, something he was never tired of. His secret plan seemed to be in jeopardy after the last rally in Yemassee. "You look tired," Pete said. The local organizer had bowed out at the last minute and Chasten had pulled double duty as both the hype man and keeper of the question bowl, in addition to being his usual effervescent self all day. "Whatever you've cooked up can wait."

"I'm fine," Chasten said, suppressing a yawn through force of will. 

It was after ten o'clock when the bus arrived at the hotel in Seabrook. In the room, Pete went into the bathroom for two minutes to wash his face and brush his teeth, and when he came back out he found Chasten asleep, lying diagonally on the bed, head on his crossed arms. He'd gotten as far as taking off his jacket and his shoes; his glasses were pushed up onto his forehead. "Couldn't do it," Pete said. "You couldn't stay awake another twenty minutes."

Chasten didn't move. Pete didn't expect him to. He carefully took Chasten's glasses off, set them on the nightstand, before getting undressed, turning out the light and getting into bed. As he was settling in, Chasten moved closer, tucked his head under Pete's chin, threw one leg over Pete's shins, without waking up. Pete patted him on the back. Chasten had fallen asleep on top of him plenty of times. He wasn't going to start complaining. 

When they began to get physical, after a few months of dating, an arrangement fell into place without either of them discussing it: Pete would try anything once if Chasten did it first. Pete was, for a worldly man in his thirties, very green. He'd slept with his girlfriends in college in a misguided attempt to not be gay, even though he knew it wouldn't work. Now he was in love for the first time, with another man, and as happy as he was he was still thrown for a loop. Some things came easier than others. Kissing, for one; Chasten was a great kisser. His lips were soft, he wasn't pushy or sloppy, and he stayed on top of shaving so stubble wasn't really a problem. There was a kiss for everything: good morning, see you later, I haven't seen you all day, have a good day, thank you, good night. Pete could make out with Chasten for hours; it was like being a horny teenager again. He thought about it when he was at work, he waited for Chasten to come over on the weekends so they could kiss on the couch. More than that, there was the touching, holding, cuddling, hugging. Pete had to admit to himself that he was probably more than a little touch-starved, living alone. Chasten was actually a very touchy person, he liked to be close and he would just go for it. In the mornings Chasten was the big spoon while they were still in bed, and they hugged goodbye in the morning. Chasten put his hand on Pete's back or shoulder all the time, came up and squeezed him from behind. Pete gave in so far as to sit on Chasten's lap a few times, and he felt - safe there, with him. Untouchable. Wanting to live in that moment forever. 

Chasten sighed in his sleep. Pete moved his hand up to the back of Chasten's neck and started playing with his hair. He looked younger when he was asleep: not stressed, not on for anyone. Pete let his hand drift down to Chasten's back, in the dip of his spine. He was warm, and he smelled like clean laundry and fresh air. If Pete was able to move his head, he would have kissed the crown of his head, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. He closed his eyes. 

In the morning Chasten asked Pete why he'd let him fall asleep in his clothes, and all Pete could do was shrug and say, "You looked comfortable."

\--

"_I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, you express me better than I can express myself, you shall be more to me than my poem,_" Pete said. He was reading Whitman again. Chasten was sitting next to him in the back room of the bus, looking at Instagram. They had gone back to talk to the head of security about the new crowd control policy, and they'd gone over the afternoon schedule with Saralena, and had a conference call with Mike and the policy team about the next rollout. It was time for a break. Chasten was checking social media and Pete was reading poetry. Same as it ever was. They were leaving the first rally of the day in Port Royal and going to Beaufort. From there they were continuing on to St. Helena Island, and in the morning to Charleston, the last stop on the trip. 

Chasten was looking at a video of kids in yellow Iowa for Pete shirts doing the dance when he felt Pete's hand on his knee. He shouldn't have been surprised when the hand began to creep up his thigh. Pete didn't miss a beat. "_I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air, and all free poems also, I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,_" he said, pushing his hand over and inside, dragging his fingernails over denim, up the seam to the zipper. "_I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, I think whoever I see must be happy._"

"What are you doing?" Chasten hissed, as Pete applied just a little pressure. 

"Repaying a favor," Pete said, like he'd just come back from the store with a gallon of milk. Book in one hand, the other slowly pulling Chasten's fly down, he kept reading. "_I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them, whoever denies me it shall not trouble me, whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me._"

Chasten set his phone aside and bit his tongue as Pete opened his belt and eased his hand in, gently caressed him with just his fingers until he was ready, then began to stroke, hand curled around him. He hadn't even looked away from his book, was still reading in a steady, level voice, with just a hint of a smile on his face. He looked awfully smug for someone who was barely moving. The bus went over a bump in the road and Chasten lurched forward, into Pete's hand which tightened ever so slightly, and he sucked air in through his teeth. "Peter," he said. "Peter."

"_Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old -_"

"Why did I fall in love with a man who gets off on poetry -"

" _\- from it falls distilled the charm that mocks beauty and attainments -_"

"I am going to come - " 

" _\- toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact._" Pete lay the book down, turned, leaned forward, brought his mouth down to his hand. That was it. Chasten pulled his shirt up and pushed his jeans down as far as he could. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back as he came, mouth open but no sound emerging. Even after it was over he slumped there, hardly believing what had just happened. Pete had gotten him off to the sound of Whitman. 

Pete went to the bathroom; Chasten heard the water run. He tucked his shirt back in, zipped his fly, buckled his belt. He picked up his phone, saw the time. It had only taken five minutes. Pete came back in, sat down, picked up the book. _"However sheltered this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here, however welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while."_

Pete's phone pinged. He looked at the text. "We'll be at the venue in ten minutes."

"So I have nine minutes to collect myself," Chasten said. "Thank you. Very considerate."

"I'm always looking out for you, love." 

In Beaufort, Pete retold the story of their first date to a crowd that hung on every word. Chasten watched him tell it without interrupting, and when Pete was finished their eyes met and he smiled that smile that made his eyes crinkle, and if Chasten didn't already know that he was looking at the love of his life, he would have figured it out. 

\--

The last day of the trip was a Sunday. They woke up in Charleston, close enough to the ocean that Pete would swear he could smell salt on the air. There was a full compliment on the schedule: morning worship service at a historic AME church, a town hall at the county college, and a private fundraiser that evening at a restaurant in the hipster part of the city. It was the last day they would be together: Pete was going to Iowa first thing Monday, Chasten was going to California, and their ships wouldn't pass each other for days. Pete's mind was on the work but his eye was on Chasten: in the pew at church, from the wings at the town hall, moving around the room at the restaurant. He wanted to remember every detail of the day for the nights he went to bed alone. 

"I saw you looking at me," Chasten said, in the back room of the bus, heading to the hotel. In the morning the bus was driving back to South Bend to wait for the next trip. "All day. What's up?" 

"I'm going to miss you," Pete said. "This trip together has been a lot of fun. Tomorrow we're going to different places and we won't see each other for days." 

"Then I guess we should make this a night to remember," Chasten said, smiling a certain way. 

Anticipation was hot. Pete had no idea before he met Chasten and the thought of being taken to bed was enough to distract him all day. Chasten knew this, exploited it, made Pete wait for it, because that made it better for both of them. They were silent for the rest of the ride. In the hotel, Pete pled tiredness to get his key card. He didn't touch Chasten, and Chasten didn't touch him, in the elevator or as they walked down the hall. Pete briefly considered putting something heavy in front of the door as he closed it. "So," he said.

"So," Chasten echoed. 

"I know when you've got something up your sleeve."

"Oh?" Chasten said, letting one eyebrow go up a fraction of an inch. "Well, if you're so sure, why don't we get started?"

Chasten said once that it took years for him to enjoy sex once he started having it. "Maybe it's a Catholic thing, at least partly," he said, lying in bed with his head on Pete's shoulder, fingers idly tracing circles on his chest. "You know, guilt. I spent so long hearing from people who were supposed to love me that I was doing something wrong, being wrong, because I'm gay. It gets in your head. And it's not like the boyfriends I had were good people. And I never liked one night stands that much, so awkward."

"I can't say I have a frame of reference," Pete said. "You are the totality of my romantic life." 

"You had a completely different struggle."

Of all the men on all the dating apps, of every profile Pete skimmed and ignored, every message he sent that was never answered, every strange penis he saw and wanted to forget, every man who just wasn't right - it was against almost astronomically high odds that he would first see the love of his life on a 3x5 screen. But here they were. 

Pete sat down on the bed. "Do what you want," he said. "I'm here."

"First things first," Chasten said.

He unbuttoned Pete's shirt, pushed it over his shoulders, tilted his head back and kissed him. Chasten undressed Pete down to his underwear and pushed him gently to lie on the bed before taking his own clothes off. "Roll over," he said. 

Pete did as he was told. He lay on his stomach, arms folded under the pillow, let Chasten touch him. "I love when the blush comes up on your skin, you're so pale and it's so bright," he said, running his fingers up and down Pete's sides, his ribs, his hips. "All the blood rushing to where I'm touching." 

"I always respond," Pete said. He was enjoying this so much, just the sensation of his husband's hands on him after a long day, that he almost didn't realize that Chasten was kissing a trail down his spine until he felt his boxers being nudged off his hips and the tip of Chasten's tongue pressing into the sensitive cleft. Pete made a noise between a gasp and a yelp. 

"Too much?" Chasten asked.

"No." Pete swallowed. "Keep going. Please." 

"So polite," Chasten said, and Pete felt his soft hair and his warm mouth, just enough pressure to keep him on the edge without going over. Pete balled the sheets in his fist. He could barely say a word. "Chasten," he groaned, when he felt he couldn't take another second. "I'm going to -"

"Me too. Hang on." 

A hand snaked underneath him, and Pete clenched his muscles to stay lifted enough to let Chasten touch him, for the few moments he had to before he came. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. He got on his knees, turned around. Chasten was smiling at him with hooded eyes. "Let me," Pete said, reaching for him, pressing them together, rocking into him. Chasten shuddered against him, and sighed. 

"Los Angeles," Chasten said, when they had cleaned up and lying under the covers, in the dark. "And you're going to Iowa."

"I think I'll miss Iowa, once the caucus is over. But these are the days that must happen to you."

"I swear to God, if you don't stop it with the poetry," Chasten said, and Pete laughed, buried his face in Chasten's neck. 

\--

In the morning, on his flight from Charleston to Los Angeles, Chasten opened the book he'd been reading in South Carolina and a note fell out of the pages. He opened it. On hotel stationary, in that familiar left-handed scrawl, were the words of Whitman. _He going with me must go well armed, he going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions._ When they landed and he turned his phone on, he was going to text Pete, something like _I often go hungry and cranky on the trail but I do it because I believe in you._ And Pete, back in Iowa for one last push, would write back, _I know._


End file.
